


A Good Offense

by asuralucier



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Basically Tim forces Jon to watch him have sex, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dubious Consent, Forced Voyeurism, Kind of for the lols, M/M, MAG 049 Related, POV Jonathan Sims, Tim/Jon kind of, early season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23946751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Tim realises Jon has been watching his house, and decides to take the initiative.However, oops, he’s double booked himself for the evening.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker, Tim Stoker/Unnamed Police Constable
Comments: 13
Kudos: 94





	A Good Offense

**Author's Note:**

> A weird first foray into an equally weird, but wonderful sandbox. I hope someone enjoys this. I just wanted to put Jon in a closet idek.

“Tea? I’ve just put the kettle on,” Tim calls from the kitchen. “And if I haven’t run out of biscuits you can have some of those.” 

For what it’s worth, Jon has been trying to angle his way into Tim’s residence for some time. His stakeouts for the last two weeks have yielded precious little by way of new information. If Tim feels so compelled to help him out on that front, then Jon is not going to complain. This might yet save him some time. It’s not as if he doesn’t _want_ to trust his Archival Assistants, it’s just that he _can't_. 

Really, they ought to understand the impossible position Jon is in. 

And the quicker this whole mess is cleared up, the happier everyone will be. What’s more, Tim hadn’t seemed too surprised when he’d caught Jon skulking around the hedge. Tim hadn’t sounded terribly angry either. Just asked Jon if he wanted a cup of tea, or if he needed the loo. 

“No offense, boss, you’re like the last person I’d expect to wee on somebody’s lawn.” 

Jon looks around. At first glance, Tim’s front room is suspiciously normal. A few books strewn here and there, a laptop computer plugged into a nearby socket. Maybe he’ll get his chance, after all, how long does it take for the kettle to boil again? 

“Have you ever gone on someone’s lawn?” Jon wonders out loud. 

“I’ve pissed at a bus stop once.” Tim reappears with a mug of tea and a plate of slightly dire-looking digestives. “I was still in uni. It’s like a rite of passage.” 

“Right. Thanks for the tea.” 

“Anytime.” 

Perhaps Tim is trying to kill him with kindness. They all are, to some extent. And yet Tim’s kindness feels distinctively different from Martin’s hapless buzzing around while Jon is working in the Archives. Tim is charming where Martin simply isn’t. And this makes Tim infinitely more dangerous, and Jon suddenly decides not to drink his tea. Just in case. 

“Something wrong?” 

Since they’re not at work, it’s not surprising to see Tim in more casual attire, a t-shirt with some sort of band logo on it and fitted dark jeans. What’s more surprising to Jon is how comfortable Tim appears to be, how the scars on his arms don’t seem to bother him in the slightest. 

“I had a sip,” Jon lies, “I think your milk’s off.”

“I bought it yesterday,” Tim says, taking a small sip from his own mug. Something else in his voice clearly implies that this is something Jon should know. But Tim is good at playing along. “It shouldn’t be, mine isn’t.”

“Oh.” 

Tim’s eyes slide away from Jon to focus on his cup of tea; it’s a scrutinising gaze, enough to make Jon wish that he’d had the foresight to smear the rim. “Do you want mine instead?” 

“If...if that’s not too much trouble,” Jon says. “You have tea the same way I do, don’t you?” 

Tim’s expression is more or less unreadable as he puts down his mug and slides it over to Jon. Jon does the same, and doesn’t move a muscle until Tim has picked up the other mug and drank from it. 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my milk, Jon.” 

“All right,” Jon concedes with a casual shrug, as casual as he can possibly manage. “It might be just me.” 

“I think it is,” Tim says, and suddenly the affability is gone from his voice. “Christ, Jon, you’ve been _watching my house_.” 

“I,” Jon starts. It’s suddenly difficult to find the words to express precisely what he means to say. Precision has always come easily enough to Jon, despite Tim’s glare melting away his resolve. “Listen, Tim, it’s not that I’ve been watching your house.” 

“Jon, I live forty minutes away from you by tube. That’s not exactly a jaunt to the corner shop.” 

“Yeah, I know, but--” 

But before Jon can answer to dig himself into a further hole, Tim’s mobile chirps in his pocket. He fishes it out and thumbs at the screen. His face goes through several permutations of shock and uncertainty, before he says. “Fuck, today’s Thursday.” 

“What about it?” 

Suddenly, Tim is animated, like someone’s pressed fast-forward on a tape recorder. In record time, he’s cleared the table of their untouched mugs and the plate of digestives. He looks between his mobile and Jon, but before he can say anything, a loud knock sounds on Tim’s front door. 

Jon says, “Expecting someone?” 

“Yes, actually.” 

“I could go out the back,” Jon suggests. 

Tim looks like he’s chewing something funny and unable to swallow it down. “Have you only been watching my front door?” 

“Erm.” 

“Anyway, the back door’s bust, I keep meaning to get someone over to look at it. But I keep working late. Haven’t had the time.” 

Another knock, accompanied by another prolonged chirp from Tim’s mobile punctuates the slightly mortified silence between them. Finally, Tim sighs, “Look, go in my closet. It doesn’t shut right, but if you don’t make any noise, you should be fine. Go. Now.” 

“But.” 

“Go, Jon. Now. I have to go open the door.” 

And so Jon goes. 

Jon tries to look on the bright side. 

In the matter of half an hour, he’d managed to accomplish what he hadn’t been able to do in two weeks. He’s made it into Tim’s house, and now he’s made into his bedroom. Pity there’s no time to look around. The bedroom is small anyway, and Jon slides himself the best he could into Tim’s closet. It’s a cramped space, but enough for Jon to stand up straight. The door indeed doesn’t shut properly, but as long as he keeps himself aligned with the wall, he might make it out of here without irritating his spine too much.

“What took you so long, hey?” 

Another tick for the bright side: the walls of Tim’s house are paper thin. Even if Jon can’t manage to be in the same room as Tim and his mysterious visitor, with any luck, he’ll hear enough of what they’re up to. Jon doesn’t recognise the other voice. 

“Oh, I was--” a little laugh from Tim, somehow, it sounds unnatural. “Doing inventory on my fridge. I think my milk’s gone off.” 

“Good thing I don’t want a cuppa.” 

“Yeah, I guess it’s a good thing, Constable.” 

Constable. Jon recalls that since Sasha’s computer has broken again for the second time in three months beyond repair, Tim’s been working well, _overtime_ to liaise with his various contacts at the Met. Of course Jon knows what these liaisons entail in theory, but it’s quite another matter to be confronted with the practice so...intimately. 

He’s suddenly glad he’s not in the same room with Tim and the Constable. 

But then the door to Tim’s bedroom opens, revealing the entanglement of one Timothy Stoker and the Constable still in uniform. They’ve clearly done this before. Jon’s not a font of sexual experience or anything, but there’s a familiarity to the way the two men are moving, the way they’re giving themselves into a rhythm that doesn’t need any words or further negotiation. 

From his limited field of vision, Jon is treated to Tim shoving his hand down the Constable’s trousers. The Constable groans and arches forward, and Tim pulls him in for another kiss, this one with a lot of tongue, as if Tim is determined to taste and catalogue all of the Constable. Tim is possibly a good kisser, having had lots of practice.

Jon has no idea why that particular extrapolation has entered his head just now. Of course not. But his mouth is suddenly drier than he remembers, and Jon can’t quite swallow. 

Then, Tim shoves the Constable down onto his bed, and the mattress creaks dangerously beneath their weight. Jon can’t help but wonder if Tim’s ever broken his bed before. Given the sample data Jon has in front of him, this seems almost likely. 

Tim lets go of the Constable long enough to allow for the other man to tug his shirt over his head. Jon has seen Tim shirtless exactly once, at a day out in Brighton, a team bonding exercise insisted on by Sasha and Martin. 

Other things must have happened that day; they must have eaten, strolled along the promenade. But the only thing Jon remembers of that day is Tim taking his shirt off to run straight towards the waves. 

Jon wonders why that is. He wonders why the assurance of one’s own physical attractiveness comes so easy to some people and not others. He wonders about what’s going through Tim’s mind now, as he strokes the Constable through his trousers, arching with a little hiss when the Constable skims his fingers over the scars left by worms, just over Tim’s ribs, and then he presses in. 

“You fucker,” Tim says, his voice scratched and low. 

“You like it.” 

That’s something else Jon wonders about too, how the Constable can be so at ease being pinned down by Timothy Stoker. Possibly because he _wants_ to be, but that too is another can of worms.

Jon shuts his eyes tight. 

“Yeah, maybe I do like it a little.” 

When Jon opens his eyes again a second later, Tim is looking straight into the little sliver of space. Jon holds his gaze the best he can, a funny lump in his throat, and then the moment passes. 

Tim even fucks like he’s good-looking. He fucks like he’s absolutely in charge and in the centre of attention. Conversely, it probably doesn’t matter much to Tim that other people happen to think that, because Jon happens to know about the young lady, too. 

And as it seems, it’s not as if Tim lets that get in the way of his performance, either way. 

It’s a little unfair, and Jon has to tell himself that it’s only jealousy that’s freezing up his hands and warming up his blood, pulling it south. Jon thinks he ought to breathe, or maybe even give into the urge to sneeze. Tim and the Constable are probably making enough noise between them not to pay that any mind. The Constable is breathing hard against Tim’s neck, fingers digging in Tim’s scars, perhaps hard enough to make new ones tomorrow. 

Tim’s muscles strain as he fucks into the Constable, harder, and harder, rolling his hips forward with explicit purpose. To anchor himself properly, Tim’s got one hand digging into the Constable’s arse, probably meaning to leave marks of his own. 

The rhythm seems to have seeped its way into Jon’s heartbeat without him noticing. He tries to remember too, that not a few seconds before he’d wanted to sneeze. Now he can’t recall. 

“Oh, God, Constable,” Tim pants, “Look at me. I’m so fucking close--”

And so Jon does. 

“...Hey boss, you okay in there?” 

Jon has to cough before he can trust himself to speak again. He’s also folded against the wall in a way that feels unnatural. He’ll probably spend tomorrow paying for that. “Y-yes, I think so.” 

“Good,” Tim says, “Well, you can come out now. The Constable’s gone.” 

“Oh.” 

“He really means it when he says he doesn’t want a cup of tea, which is good for me.” The door to the closet swings open. At first, Jon blinks at the light, and then he’s distracted by--

“Is that.” 

“Come on my stomach, yes,” Tim affirms. He’s got his trousers back on, but the fly is undone and he looks relaxed. “I’ll take a shower later. Unless you’d like to watch me do that too. Maybe you can check that I wash properly under my armpits.” 

“Well.” 

“Going, going, and gone,” Tim sidles up to Jon, close enough that Jon is overwhelmed and nearly thinks about crawling back into Tim’s closet. “Seriously Jon, don’t fucking watch my house again, all right?” 

“All right,” Jon agrees and although he tries to tell himself that he might not be telling the truth, he probably is. He steps out around Tim and tries not to look at the bed. 

“Oh, and,” Tim says from somewhere behind him, “the Constable left me some papers. You might want to read them. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, boss.”


End file.
